


run for the seaside until our lungs cave in

by inkwelled



Series: starmoraweek2018 [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Day At The Beach, Dorks in Love, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Floppy Sunhats, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gamora needs a hug, Light Petting, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Peter Quill Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Road Trips, Starmora Week 2018, Summer Vacation, Sunburn, They Miss Their Moms, underwater kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: day one ; will you trace your hand on my heart? we can split the sky in two.— now they’re laughing and singing along to the crackly radio that spits tunes they both know at the top of their lungs.





	run for the seaside until our lungs cave in

**Author's Note:**

> title; [seaside](http://www.hauxmusic.com/lyrics/)by haux [(exes remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXRKBu7n4T4)
> 
> my goal was to keep each day under 3k, but i already failed. oops! 
> 
> enjoy regardless; these two deserve the entire world and if marvel won't give it to them, i will.

In the convertible, with her hair down and a streamer of magenta against the light blue of the sky, Peter finds himself falling in love a little bit more with every second. The sunglasses that bridge Gamora’s nose are too wide for her cheeks but she’s happy, her head thrown back and a smile dancing across her face and he has to force himself to look forward. 

It’s their first summer together on Earth, and he steps on the gas only to hear Gamora whoop. 

The Guardians are back at the compound, content to roam around the acres of land Stark has under his name, and the leather is warm through the thin material of his shirt. Clean, warm air tosses his hair until his curls become tangles, and Gamora takes his hand over the space between their seats. 

Under the sunshine of the late afternoon, she’s bathed in a glow he can only describe as ethereal. Dressed in a loose-flowing tanktop that shows off her shoulders and shorts that inch upwards when she props her bare feet on the dashboard (not that he’s looking, of course, he’s focused on driving), Peter thinks Earthen clothes have never looked better. 

Flipflops discarded on the floor of the car, Gamora extends one hand out past the open structure of the convertible and moves her hand with the wind, up and down. Peter tangles the fingers on her other hand with his, smiling at the cool sweep of her rings against his sun-warmed skin and she smiles at him. 

Her floppy sunhat is in the back, her skin shimmers with sunscreen she had scrunched her nose at – “Why is this necessary? Aren’t humans immune to the sun?” “No, babe, _we_ aren’t and I would be grateful if you put some on as well even though you’re protected already.” – but had giggled when he spread over her cheekbones. 

“It tickles,” she gasped, reaching forward to smear her own fingertips over his face and he had laughed, louder and freer than he had in a while. The cold of the lotion combined with the lukewarm touch of her hand (thanks to her body mods maintaining a certain temperature) had him squirming away, and she had taken chase. 

Now they’re laughing and singing along to the crackly radio that spits tunes he and she alike both know – a small comfort after the realization the production of music did not halt when he was abducted – to the top of their lungs. 

Gamora gasps, leaning away from him suddenly and he smiles knowingly. She’s never seen the beach, only heard about it in stories and they wind through the rough mountain road. According to the screen to the right of his vision that occasionally talks in a halted, feminine voice, the best way to get to the crashing waves below is to park in a forest and walk. 

When they – _he –_ had approached Stark with the request, he had been pleasantly surprised by the billionaire’s reaction. As a kid growing up, he had read about Anthony Stark’s accomplishments and wondered briefly what his life was like, and this is not how he would have expected it. 

Instead of turning his nose when Peter asked for help, like he would of expected from the older, richer man, Tony threw himself into making sure _this trip was the best damn trip they would ever go on._

As Gamora mesmerizingly watches the waves crash into each other far below and he starts the descent down the winding path, he reminds himself to thank Tony when they get back. The stick is familiar in his hand, a reminder of his mom’s singing and the top down on humid days when his curls would stick to his forehead and he would suck slushie through a straw between the gap where his front teeth used to be. 

 _Look mom!_ he remembers giggling. _I have blue teeth!_

Meredith had laughed, stuck her tongue out at him to show him her own purple mouth, and he had bent over in the front seat of the car his mom said one day would be his, like his father’s before him. 

_Father._

The memory turns sour on his tongue and he shakes his head, focusing on the curves in the road and the wheel underneath his left palm. In his right hand, Gamora flexes her fingers and he looks over briefly to find her breathing through her mouth and when he laughs, she turns and smiles. 

Blushing when he remembers her body mods would have picked over his reaction instead of letting it be lost in the whipping wind that paints her hair against the faded leather of the seat, he just shrugs when she sends him a quizzical look. They’re so close the taste of the salt air saturates his every pore, and he breathes in deeply. 

He’s been all across the universe, visited almost every planet in that vast infinite he now calls home, and he’s never found a smell quite like this one. 

There’s something about this; the rustling of the trees in the whipping wind, the waves racing and diving against each other before tapering out at the edge of the sand that roars with contact. Just the taste of the air, salty yet clean and fresh, perfect in every way, makes him want to dive into the coolness of the ocean and wash the mission from his shoulders. 

Thanos is dead, and they are here. 

Gamora does everything but jump from the car when he stops on a flat surface and shuts off the engine. She’s practically vibrating from excitement and when she bends to open the hatch in the back and her shorts shift, Peter swears his heart stops. 

Just a sliver, nothing more, sends his lungs into a spasm in which they shut down completely and he feels like he no longer needs air. Contrasted boldly against the skin of her hip, the tie of the black bikini bottom sits innocently and he wonders if the small bows signify it comes untied at the sides. 

Not that he’s thinking of divesting her of her swim suit while they’re on vacation. 

Of course not. 

He hefts the picnic basket, checkered blanket peeking out from the corner closest to his hip and Gamora takes both surfboards under her arm. Peter has never surfed, never even touched a surfboard before but his eight-year old self had longed to. 

 _When you’re okay,_ a smaller Peter whispers into a stark-white room where his mother is small and pale, _we’ll go surfing._

 _Surfing the stars, my little Star-Lord,_ she whispers back and closes her eyes. 

“Peter?” 

He blinks, looks up into Gamora’s worried gaze. As well as the surfboards, the beach bags containing their towels and extra clothes is slung across her shoulder and he takes a moment to soak in the sight. 

Framed by the scraggly trees, Gamora _glows._ Maybe it’s the sunlight filtering through the branches or something in the air; the ocean atmosphere magical in physical properties but he doesn’t know. He smiles reassuringly, pushing aside the spinning inside his skull, and closes the trunk. 

“I always dreamed of seeing your beach.” Gamora says, as they hike down the trail to the sand. Her flipflops sink into the ground partially with every step and he hefts the picnic basket higher into the crook of his elbow. 

“Really?” 

She hums, stepping around a trunk of a rotting tree. “You have told me stories about this place for years, and I am eager to see the place that means so much to you.” 

Peter stops in the middle of the trail and she does too, turning. Her hair falls against her shoulders and back, green skin shimmering in the shadowed sunlight, and her sunglasses are perched atop her head, pushing the tangles further back. 

“If you continue to stop we’ll never get there.” 

He nods, sets his jaw, steps around her. “C’mon then.” 

As he passes, Gamora sends him a puzzled look but follows him. The trail and scraggly woods eventually gives way to tall grass that skims his knees and then, finally, white sand. All at once, the smell of the ocean hits him like a wave and he wants to sink to his knees, cry because he’s here and his mom isn’t, but his feet sink into the ground and he continues. 

“This is quite irritating,” she observes, and Peter turns. 

She’s looking down at the sand, the grains already between her toes she let him paint last night before bed.  “Yeah, that’s the one thing that hasn’t changed,” he chuckles and shows her how to shake her foot to get rid of the substance. 

“I don't like sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere,” she says, looking distastefully at her flipflops and he chokes on his bark of laughter. She says it so casually, as if she didn’t just reference one of his favorite movies of all time. 

Last night, while he’d painted her toenails and braided back her wet hair from their shower, she had watched _Attack of the Clones_ and had to pause every ten minutes to ask a question. 

“It’s easier if you just take your shoes off.” 

Wrinkling her nose, she sends one last withering look at her sandals before finally giving up. When she bends down to hook the straps around her finger he glimpses a peek at the top of her bathing suit and has to count down from one hundred. 

_Ninety-nine._

_Ninety-eight._

“I am ready,” she announces and he swallows, walks forward. 

_Ninety-seven._

The sun beats down, and he swears that after all his time in space, he’ll be burnt in no time. A glance back at Gamora to see how she’s faring reveals her solely interested in the waves, and he can see she’s itching to get in. 

So he drops the picnic basket and she looks at him, surprised. “Here?” 

“Yep!” He says brightly. “Welcome to the beach.” 

Nodding, Gamora sets down the two surfboards Stark had supplied them with, hers magenta and his red. “I like it already,” she says, before frowning, “except sand.” 

The laugh that bubbles in Peter’s throat is organic and doesn’t feel forced. Under the sun, drowned out by the crashing and raging of the waves a few hundred feet away, he can’t hear his own thoughts and he’s grateful. 

“Let’s go then.” 

In the time it takes him to kick off his sandals, Gamora’s already halfway down the beach and her clothes lay on a heap in the sand. Groaning, he scoops them, shaking the sand before laying them on her towel and then he’s off. 

Gamora stands at the water’s edge. 

He slows to a stop next to her. 

“It is cold,” she informs him, and he lopsidedly grins. 

“That’s the point!” 

She shrieks when he pushes her in and he flees from her wrath in the waves. At first is curls and laps around his ankles but he splashes deeper until it’s around his chest and he has to close his eyes against the waves to prevent the water from getting into his eyes. 

Gamora, apparently, is not as lucky. 

When she finally reaches him, in chin-high waves, she’s sputtering. The salt has already turned her tangles into more of a mess and around her eyes is red from rubbing, but she’s smirking when she tackles him under. 

Peter gladly lets his girlfriend drag him under, and the water is so clear that when he opens his eyes, he can see her well enough to pull her close. Bubbles escape her mouth when she laughs as he grasps at her hips and everything is clearer, bluer. 

Slippery with salt, Gamora’s lips are firm against his. She’s pressed close, so close he can feel the outline of her chest against his sternum and the grapple of her fingers around his biceps. 

But then he turns his head to deepen the kiss and instead of opening his mouth to her prodding tongue, he inhales a gulp of salt water. 

Coughing while trying not to swallow more, he pulls away and desperately breaks the surface, gasping. Gamora emerges not a few seconds later, confusion and worry lining her forehead until he reassures her between hacking with a weak smile. 

“That didn’t go as planned,” he spits, and she rubs his back sympathetically. 

“It was a noble attempt,” she says solemnly and he sputters a laugh before slapping the water in her direction. She yells, followed quickly by a mocking roar, and he finds himself fleeing again. 

When she catches up to him on the sand, though, he lets her tackle him. 

They both go tumbling, kicking up sand when their bodies roll over each other and she’s shaking against him with mirth the entire time. They eventually come to a stop, he on top of her and she’s still laughing, hair encrusted with sand when he leans down. 

Gamora meet him halfway and when she turns her head this time, he’s able to sweep his tongue against the seam of her mouth and smile when she opens, willing. He knows how ridiculous this is; both of them covered with sand that’s already starting to crust and the sun beating down on his exposed back, but she presses a hand to his chest and he loses all thought. 

Her bathing suit is basically a glorified bikini connected by a single strip of fabric that wraps around the ring between her breasts, and he splays his fingers under her ribs and she moans into the kiss, flipping them over. 

Peter covers his eyes, knowing it’ll make the sand around and _on them_ fly but he isn’t fast enough. Grains slip past his fingers, and he cries out. 

On top of him, Gamora stills. “Peter?” 

He rubs his eyes, trying to see her through the tears that have built up on his lash line, trying to wash away the impurities. “I’m fine, babe,” he grinds out and she sweeps her fingertip under his eye. 

“You do not look fine,” she observes, and he blinks once. 

Twice. 

She’s still perched on his hips, leaning over to make sure he’s okay, and the sight makes his breath stutter, but not because of her hand on his chest. Her hair cascades over her shoulders as she grows closer, and her head is ringed in light. 

Gamora _glows,_ haloed in the afternoon sunlight, and she smiles back when his face breaks into one. “What?” 

Peter just smiles wider, cupping her cheek. “Nothing. I’m just happy.” 

Her face softens, and her own hand comes up to cover his. “As am I.” 

This time, when they kiss, there’s no salt water in his mouth or sand in his eyes, just pure and simple _Gamora_ surrounding him, living and real under his fingertips. She’s here, anchoring him in the sand with her hips and he reaches up to pull her down, closer. 

They migrate back to the ocean to wash the sand from the nooks and crannies. She wrings our her hair, and he dips his head beneath an oncoming wave. Afterwards, they lay on their towels, fingers tangled, and they don’t move when the sunset paints the sky in violent beauty. 

Then it’s night, and Gamora snuggles further into his side. 

His skin is warm – warmer than usual, balmy with the sun – against her ear and he lays their fingers on his stomach. Absentmindedly stroking his thumb against hers, she listens to the singing of the crickets and muted rushing of the waves. 

“Are you going to tell me why you’re sad now?” 

Floating somewhere between sleep and his own happiness, Peter stirs under her. “What?” 

She sighs, tracing circles with her nose into his ribs. “Your eyes have been sad all day. Is it about your mother?” 

He’s quiet. 

“I know you wish she could be here with you,” Gamora says, “and I do too. But she loved the stars, and you, and I know she’s up there somewhere watching.” 

His breath stutters and she tightens her fingers around his. “My mother used to say that whenever someone we love dies, they become the next star in the newest constellation,” she whispers, “but I never believed her. And I wish I had, when I was young, but now I am hopeful she is not there.” 

Peter turns his head, chin slotting against her hair. “Why?” 

She shrugs, craning her head to look up at him. “I have done things I do not want her to see. She would be ashamed of who I was before I met the Guardians, but you –“ she splays her palm over the heartbeat of his soul, “ – your mother would be proud of the man you’ve become, with and without her.” 

He’s quiet, and she’s wondering if he even heard her when his chest heaves and she realizes with a start he’s _crying_. Guilt bolts up her spine and she reaches for his chin when Peter smiles wobblily down at her. 

Tightening his arm around her shoulders, he pulls her close enough to press salt-slick lips to her forehead. She closes her eyes at the sensation, and he whispers _thank you_ into her matted hair and she wipes away the tears on his cheeks. 

And they lay there, under the stars, and Peter stares upwards. There’s a pit in his stomach, urging him to say _something_ although the silence is blissful, and he licks his lips. 

“Your mom would be proud of you too, you know.” 

Gamora’s head rears up from his chest, neck twisting to look at him and he shrugs. “She would. Yes you’ve done some things in the past you’re ashamed of, but every action has brought you here, right here,” he presses a kiss to her shoulder, “and you’ve never forgotten her, or your homeworld.” 

“You’ve carried them here,” he says, pressing a knuckle lightly to the skin above her heart, “and it shows in every action, whether you realize it or not. You care about us band of outlaws and ruffians like we deserve more than to be thrown into jail and I love you for that.” 

“ _She_ loves you for that,” he whispers, and his eyes flutter close when she leans forward. 

This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed today, nor will it be the last. She braces her palm against his chest, pushing up to reach his lips and she doesn’t care that they’re chapped. Tomorrow they’ll wake, curled around each other and mouths dry from the heat, shoulders sticky with sunburn and sunscreen that didn’t do it’s job, and she’ll kiss him across their seats in the car. 

She’ll throw her hands in the air, laugh like the world isn’t still reforming around her, and he’ll kiss her ear and rub circles into her thigh where her shorts ride up against the leather. 

They’ll be happy. 

They _are_ happy.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come yell with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/starrymora) and/or [tumblr](http://nymphrea.tumblr.com/) about these two


End file.
